Pale September
by Rot-Chan
Summary: But as she cries, because Naruto doesn't come home tonight, at least Hinata can say, “I am a good wife.” At least this much is true. NaruHina/NaruSaku.


**Title**: Pale September

**Author**: Rot-Chan

**Prompts**: passive, pretend

**Rating**: T for sexuality & infidelity

**Summary**: But as she cries, because Naruto doesn't come home tonight, and something in her pangs with truth, at least Hinata can say, "I am a good wife." At least this is true. NaruHina/NaruSaku; infidelity.

_[Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto, but I love to write with prompts.]_

* * *

At least . . . at least Hinata could say she was a good wife.

She laid his clothes out for him by six in the morning. She made his lunch in a bento box by eight. She cleaned up the house by five.

Hinata was sure she didn't see Naruto linger when Sakura came over, at the door; and his voice never held a different, kinder and more sensual note when speaking to the pink haired woman. Of course not.

But as she cries, because Naruto doesn't come home tonight, and something in her pangs with truth, at least Hinata can say, "I am a good wife." At least this is true.

---

She stays up, looking at old movies and pictures. Every time she sees pink, something dark clutches her heart.

There is one old tape of Ino's 18th birthday party, where she and Naruto are not together, but can feel something between themselves heavy in the air; it isn't tension, rather, it's an unsure love, where they're both young and awkward, and laughing as they blush.

It's lust, Hinata realizes, her eyes scanning the tiny television in her bedroom, the VCR box whirring, the screen growing blurry as she watches Naruto's hand on her lower back. It's a lie.

In the background, she can hear Sakura, a smile in her voice, talk about cutting the cake.

---

At 4 AM, Hinata is lost.

She sits on the bed, tracing patterns in the sheets; she goes into the kitchen and peels an orange, but the color makes her stomach churn, and she almost gets sick.

The air is humid; it's almost fall, but it's hot enough to go swimming.

But she can only picture Naruto, in another woman's bed, holding her and touching her and kissing her, and it's making her want to cry. Because deep-down, Hinata knows the apartment number, the bed, her name. And it hurts.

---

Before she moved in, the bathtub was always dirty. So was the kitchen, and the living room, and everywhere else.

Hinata cleaned for Naruto; she scrubbed the grout and dirt off the shower tiles and wiped the counters, and the sink. She did the laundry, never accidentally shrank clothing or mixed blacks with whites, like he did. It always made her smile.

She stares at the kitchen table, the counters, the floor. Neat and utterly perfect; the hideous orange lies near the stove.

Hinata picks up the fruit. Something inside of her shifts, and she squeezes it in her hands, watching in mild fascination as the juice splatters against her palm and drips onto the floor.

But it feels good, so good doing something so _disgusting_, irrational.

The orange turns to pulp beneath her hands, and now Hinata is crying, and wishing she was never here, that this night had never happened, that at four 'o clock she hadn't take the right turn and gone to Naruto's instead of the main house, or the store like she had planned.

"I . . . I hate you. I hate you both," Hinata sobs, throwing the orange pulp against the wall.

She flinches when it smacks onto the ugly green and blue wallpaper and slides down, leaving an ugly mess on the counter top, juice sprayed like blood.

She knows that even when she says it over and over, it's still a lie.

---

When Naruto walks home in the morning, it's not light out.

Something still lingers in Naruto's chest, and a heavy sort of guilt climbs up his throat as he remembers her touch and her warm breath against his cheek; he can almost feel the sensation again, and gets a pleasurable chill.

He sees his apartment, and slowly climbs the stairs. Somewhere far off, a dog barks.

Naruto walks inside. It is cool again, the early breezes from the open kitchenette's windows pouring in through the apartment. The air conditioner broke three weeks ago; he can't afford another one.

There is the scent of old fruit in the air, lingering with the fresh smell of clean air and cut grass; he walks into the living room and is silenced by the quiet.

On the couch (a hand-me-down from Kakashi that is far from new), there is a box, filled with tapes and discs, books and photo albums, a box small enough to hold in both hands.

A note reads, 'Don't forget. Just remember for us both.'

Naruto crumples the note in his hand.

He knows who it's from. Knows that back across the city, lying in her bed, the pink haired woman is smiling; and somewhere else, a blue haired girl won't let herself cry.

---

**[End]**


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